


Traitor

by ConnivingOphelia



Category: The Nightmare Before Christmas (1993)
Genre: Anal Sex, Angst, Angst and Porn, Dubious Consent, Dubiously Consensual Blow Jobs, Implied/Referenced Rape/Non-con, Implied/Referenced Torture, Implied/Referenced Underage Sex, M/M, Oral Sex, Underage Sex
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-04-20
Updated: 2017-04-20
Packaged: 2018-10-21 08:13:42
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Rape/Non-Con, Underage
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,157
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/10681290
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ConnivingOphelia/pseuds/ConnivingOphelia
Summary: Everyone in Halloweentown shrinks in terror from Oogie Boogie - even his little henchmen.  But with Lock, things get complicated.





	Traitor

 

 

The neon lights flicker around the room at different speeds – the reds hold fairly steady, while the blue winks on and off like morse code. The green is the most unsteady of all, burning still one moment, stuttering like a seizure the next, then dimming like a failing heart before it surges back up to full power again. This isn’t faulty wiring; this is His deliberate design. It is meant to create confusion, vertigo, fear. A live and glowing metaphor for His erratic whims, His dangerous power. It’s never had that effect on me, though; it only makes me feel mildly nauseous.

I walk to the midpoint between the entrance and the table, and I stand there alone, arms crossed, and wait. I am precisely on time. My brother would always arrive too early in a show of craven, desperate submission, overeager to please. My sister always shows up just late enough, breezing in with an insolent swagger, as if she’s not terrified. But I never play these subtle and pointless power games. I’ve never needed to.

I hear Him before I see Him; the neon lights’ buzzing becomes the harmony to a sudden crescendo of a new buzzing, a more cacophonous sound than the thin drone of voltage. A scuttling, clicking noise of movement and sinister life, of thousands and thousands of tiny wings, legs, eyes, venomous stingers and fangs – all muffled and contained within the rough burlap scraping across the concrete with every lurching step. The sounds grow louder as He draws closer to me from behind, until I can feel the reeking fetor of His breath pluming up hot against my back. I hold still and wait.   Some flitting insect dives around the edge of my peripheral vision and brushes its hard wings against my cheek. I close my eyes.

The rumbling laughter starts low, then gets louder until it seems to vibrate across all my nerve endings. I turn to Him, but only partway, looking up at His looming form over my shoulder. He is smiling, His eyes narrowed but heavy-lidded and burning with a heat that isn’t rage – but isn’t any less dangerous. He leans down and reaches for my face, brushes a stray curl off my forehead. I keep my eyes locked with His, unblinking, unfeeling.

“Good work tonight,” He murmurs.

“Thank you.” My voice sounds robotic, and at the sound of it He gives a low chuckle. He sees through my mask of calm bravery every time.

“What a mess you are, though.” His eyes slither across my body. “Mud on your ankles and knees. River water all over you. And what’s this, blood?” He runs His hand up the splattered dark stain that spreads up my sleeve and across my chest. He lingers over the hard little bump of my nipple beneath my shirt, and He laughs when my eyelids flutter involuntarily at the contact. “Maybe you should get out of these filthy clothes, young man.”

Impassive as I try to keep my expression, I can see in His face that He has already dismantled my façade down to the dread and the shame and the reluctance – and deeper than that, all the way down to where the undercurrent of visceral desire flows through me. I know Barrel would respond with a panicked _yes sir_ as he hurriedly ripped his clothes off his body, rushing to comply, desperate to please. I know Shock would give Him a saucy little toss of her hair and a rude sneer, maybe even bite back with a shot of sarcasm, daring Him to do His worst – which He invariably would. But I simply turn the rest of the way toward Him, eyes on His face, hands at my sides.

His smile spreads, ravenous and predatory. He puts His hands on His hips and cocks His head to the side as His gaze fondles me. I feel it on my skin like grabbing hands as I lift my shirt over my head, slide my pants to the floor and step out of them into the cold dungeon air. Like always, the vulnerable sensation of being so small and so powerless engulfs me like the tide. As if He can smell my swelling despair, He laughs.

“Up on the table, little boy.” When I turn, He gives me a smack on the ass. An indelicate little grunt escapes my mouth as I stumble, catch myself, try to walk again with some illusion of dignity. I can feel His leer on my backside as I walk, and my tail gives a reflexive swish at the rush of shame. The walk across the room seems miles long.

I climb up onto the roulette wheel and stare at the spike-ringed table before me. The ropes and the chains lay there on top like sleeping snakes. He comes up behind me and shoves the pile of restraints to the floor with a sweep of His arm. Those are for other victims in His conference room – the poor souls with their gambling debts; the wretches who’ve somehow insulted Him; my own hapless siblings. Never for me.

Close behind me, He runs one hand down my spine, tracing the curve of my ass like stroking a pet cat. “Up on the table with you,” He commands. I take hold of two of the spikes and hoist myself up, and He grabs me around the hips to give me a boost. His hands wander. I turn away from His touches and lie on my back on the table. Arms above my head, eyes on the ceiling. Counting my accelerating heartbeats until they speed too fast to keep track.

With the tip of one rough hand, He touches my cheek, then strokes a long line from my jugular to my hipbone. My body arches into His touch all on its own, against my will. I’m mildly surprised at the fury that rises in my chest at my body’s betrayal – I should be well accustomed to this by now. I don’t know if He can read the rage on my face or smell it in my bloodstream, but He laughs. “Oh, my sweet little henchman,” He croons as He leans in toward my neck. His snake tongue darts out to lick around my jawline, to ghost across the outer shell of my ear. “So fiercely independent, so _proud_.” His hand traces back up my belly, up to my chest, pinches my nipple. He twists; I gasp. “But still so fully _mine_.” He sweeps His hand down my chest, leaving my skin in His wake crawling with the sensation of insects – perhaps real, perhaps imagined, I don’t take my eyes away from the shadowed ceiling to find out. The snake’s fangs prick me around the navel, delivering a dull burn that rapidly fades. Something small and slimy makes its oozing way across my thigh. I want to dissociate, to pretend I am somewhere else, but my imagination fails me. I can imagine nothing but this room where I’ll always return, this world that will hold me forever.

He reaches between my legs and finds me hard. My traitorous cock pulses at His touch, hardening further, leaking out a small dribble of desperate precome. I close my eyes. It would be useless to try to will it away. It always is.

He strokes me slowly, letting the rough burlap scrape against my flesh, sending my brain a confused rush of pain and pleasure intermingled to the point where I can’t tell where one ends and the other begins. “You wanna know what I like?” He asks. “I like how I can send you on those little errands and know you’ll get the job done. I don’t have to worry none about following up behind you, cleaning up loose ends. You take charge of the situation, you keep in control, you _always_ deliver.” His incongruous words, better suited to an office performance review, are slightly hard to follow with His hand still stroking my hardon. I furrow my brow and concentrate harder as He goes on. “You think on your feet, you roll with the obstacles. And most importantly, you scare the shit outta every one of those bastards out there.” He shifts Himself down to brush His lips against my inner thigh. “My sweet little henchman,” He murmurs into my skin. “Always doing Oogie proud.” He engulfs my cock into His huge mouth.

My hands ball up into fists as all my muscles tense at once. I want to lie still, to react with indifference, for once to not play right into His manipulation. But my body rebels. My hips buck up to meet His mouth, my voice lets out a moan that throws echoes off the walls and the silent slot machines. He hums an answering moan that vibrates against my cock, yanks me closer to the edge. I won’t last. I never can. He never allows it, and my traitorous anatomy willingly complies.

I close my eyes and try to take my brain away again, to delay the irresistible orgasm in this one weak act of useless rebellion. I think about the blood and the body parts we three had to clean up after His last interview with a doomed gambling debtor. I think of the fear on Shock’s face, behind her veneer of aloof bravery, every time He touches her. I think of comforting a sobbing Barrel after Oogie’s finished torturing him and left him alone, bleeding and shaking, in his bed. I think of the pedestrians who cross the street as we walk the sidewalks, the mothers who pull their children in close and disappear into doorways until we’ve passed. None of this makes any difference. My hips keep thrusting into His sucking mouth; the moans keep pouring from my throat higher and breathier as He pulls me off the edge toward climax. The contractions begin, and I swear I can feel the semen’s rushing path from my testicles all the way up my shaft. I spill myself into His mouth, and the sighing noise that escapes me sounds nothing like the usual anguish that fills this room. Here in His torture chamber, lying on the very rack where countless victims have bled and died, where my own siblings are regularly violated and punished, He makes me come until I collapse back onto the hard cement in sated exhaustion. I open my eyes and try to catch my breath. I feel nauseous.

He rises up to lean over me, so close I can smell myself on His foul breath. “Oh, darlin’, so good. Always so good for me. I can send you out on impossible errands, I can pull the cum on command straight out of your little cock, I can make you go wherever I want you. And there you’ll be. My good little henchman.” He caresses down to my ass, plays along the outer rim of my hole before pushing the tip of His hand inside. “Oh, what’s _this_?” He exclaims. Genuine surprise flickers across His face, followed by nasty delight. “You’re already all stretched and wet and ready for me. Look at you, my filthy little cockslut. You just couldn’t _wait_ for your Oogie Boogieman to fuck your tight little ass. Is that right?” He strokes in and out of my ass with one hand, jacks His huge cock with the other.

“Yes, sir.” I sound completely sincere even to my own ears. Surely He’s not stupid enough to believe that – surely He can tell I prepared myself for this inevitability out of pure, selfish desire to make the process faster, easier, filled with less agony. Surely He doesn’t believe I’d sit alone in my room fingering myself open in horny anticipation.  Surely that could never be my motive.   I feel more nauseous than before. “That’s right.”

“Tell me,” He growls.

“I need your cock,” I whisper.

He grabs me by the thighs and wrenches me closer to the edge of the table. “Let me hear it.”

“I need you to fuck me.”

He rubs His dick up against my ass, barely teasing with just a bit of pressure. “Say it again.”

My hips grind against Him on their own, and my voice begins to babble without the direction of my brain. “I need it, I need to feel your huge cock slamming into my ass, fucking me till I can’t walk, I need it all the time, I think of it constantly, constantly, I think of you driving that giant cock into me and plowing me senseless. I need you inside me, _please_ I need it _please_ – ”

With a snarl He shoves Himself in, and the rest of my words all die in a gasp of air. It hurts so bad, I hate this, I _hate_ that I have to do this, I hate the noises whimpering from my lying mouth, I hate the blood rushing into my traitor dick and swelling it back to full hardness. He moves with slow, smooth thrusts in spite of my earlier begging for violence, a thin smile on His face as He watches me writhe along with Him. Then, without warning, He grabs me and twists us both around until He lies in the victims’ spot on the table, and I am suddenly on top. I grab at His hips to keep my balance, and I stare down at Him with what I know is a stupid expression.

His hands on my thighs pull me down even deeper onto Him, and He laughs at the way my eyes roll back. “Well, go on then, little darlin’. Let me see you ride that huge cock you need so _constantly_.”

I can’t read His expression, can’t tell if His tone is mocking or sincere or mortally dangerous. I can’t comprehend anything but the feel of Him inside me as I rock myself on top of Him, fucking myself at the perfect depth and speed and _oh that angle just like that_. My hand finds its way to my dick, my hips move without me like pistons on a machine. I am lost. Whoever I am, whatever complex thought I once possessed, it all disintegrates into a mindless mess of feral lust. His smile broadens as my cock twitches and erupts again, dribbling streams of white over my fist and onto His belly. My ass is so full the muscles can barely find purchase for the orgasmic contractions. I groan and close my eyes and attempt to let myself fall over, but His huge hands grab me around the waist and pin me where He wants me. The ache of my exhausted, abused insides is almost delicious in its agony as He drives His hips up into me in a hammering rhythm. The terrifying growl He makes as He comes is familiar as the ending of a favorite bedtime story. The acidic burn of His toxic ejaculate flows in its well-followed path within me. We both hold still. I can feel the agitated buzz of a numberless swarm vibrating beneath me. I hold my breath and pull my face into a neutral set, count my heartbeats as they begin to slow. He watches me, and He smiles.

At last I feel the surface rolling beneath me as He rises, guides me off His lap and onto the table as He stands and stretches. His body language is sleepy and satisfied, but His face hasn’t lost its wicked light. He reaches for my face, nudges my chin. “Oh, my little henchman. You’re showing such _promise_. Who knows? Maybe someday you won’t have to be just a humble little _henchman_ anymore.”

I don’t answer as I ease myself off the table. The ache in my ass sings with every movement. He talks like this sometimes, mysterious allusions to some vague future He is grooming me for as – what, exactly? His partner? The heir apparent to His vast gambling syndicate? The next boogieman terrorizing the town, mauling debtors, murdering enemies? I don’t want to ask, I don’t want to contemplate that grim, indistinct future. I walk gently across the room to retrieve my clothes where they lay in a small red pile. I can feel Him watching me the whole way; I can even feel His nasty smile.

“Sweet dreams, darlin’,” He calls after me as I walk, dressed again, to the huge heavy doors. I don’t answer.

The elevator squeals on its pulleys as it bears me up to the top floor of the treehouse. Even so, I try to keep my footsteps quiet as I sneak up the creaking stairs and into the hallway. Barrel’s door cracks open as I start to pass, and then swings open. He steps out, wide-eyed and rumple-haired, into the hall.

“Are you – are you okay?” Barrel whispers.

I jam my hands into my pockets, my eyes on the floor. Barrel never listens in on the conference room encounters involving me or Shock. He holes up in his bedroom until it’s all over. He must assume all our tortures are equally horrible. I wonder what he’d think if he knew the truth. The sick feeling climbs back up my throat as I look down at his worried face, picturing the horror in his eyes if he knew how I betrayed him, left him to suffer unspeakable horrors at His hands. “Yeah, I’m okay.”

He shuffles his feet and gives me a sad, sheepish look. “I can’t sleep. Can I come in your room?”

“Yeah.”

He follows behind me down the hall, then scoots around me to dart inside my room first. He dives onto the bed and claims the side with the good pillow, and he grins up at me.

I climb in behind him and settle on the other side. For all our fighting during the day, the violence, the insults, on nights like this everything is different between us. Like we’ve become allies, teammates, a unified front against a shared darkness. I heave a sigh as I lower my head onto the inferior pillow and pull the blanket up over us both. It’s so exhausting to hover in the grey areas between allegiances this way – treasonous to Oogie, disloyal and cowardly to my siblings. Just like my traitor body existing somewhere in the duality of loathing and lust, picking both sides, picking neither side, betraying everything I try to conceal. I want to sleep for years, then wake up in a life with clear-cut boundaries and easy choices. I roll onto my side away from Barrel, and he nestles up against my back, his arm thrown over my waist. Within moments his breathing grows deep and even. I take his limp hand and thread my fingers between his. The warm, trusting weight of his body against mine sends a repetitive mantra coursing endlessly through my brain – _traitor, traitor._ I stare through the darkened window and wait for dawn.


End file.
